The Writer
by ElfineStarkadder
Summary: A thick night mist creeps up the still street. A figure enveloped in a dark cloak moves through, glancing swiftly from one side to the other. The figure stops at a door, looking up at the sign: THE WRITER: Inquire Within.
1. Chapter 1

_London, 1883._

The window glass in the door is warped and distorted, meaning that one cannot see inside. There is a vague yellow glow, and some bright blue and red smudges; but all there really is to go on is the smooth wood and copper sign hanging above the door, stating in elaborate and curling letters:

THE WRITER

_Inquire Within._

The youth who is contemplating this is agitated, running his fingers up and down each other and twisting his mouth with indecision. He looks up and down the broad street he is in; no one else seems to notice the strange shop. They are walking by with their heads bent against the feathered winter wind.

He looks through the window again, and with a sudden resolve opens the door. It makes a quiet clicking sound, like a typewriter, _thuk-thuk-thuk_, until it swings slowly closed behind him.

He is standing in a low-ceilinged room, dusty, warm, with wide golden wood floors. The blue and red smudges are stacks of thick books. Every wall is covered from floor to ceiling with shelves of varying width and color, green thin shelves with silver books and long purple shelves with tiny white volumes. The atmosphere is close, but oddly clear. The youth sees a small cast-iron spiral staircase, spindling up to a floor above.

He is suddenly aware of a faint scratching noise behind him, and whirls around.

There is another person in the room.

He can see her profile outlined clearly. She is sitting on a wooden stool behind a tole-painted desk, writing in one of the books with a fountain pen. She has the longest brown hair he has ever seen; it drops down over her shoulders and puddles in little end-curls over the floor. She finishes and lays aside the pen; turns her face to him. He is slightly startled; her eyes are small and deep and set very widely apart.

He takes a step back.

"You are…the Writer?" he says.

She nods.

"I was told to come here by Perzetti."

She nods again, and speaks. "You are the boy from Les Miserables?"

"Combeferre." His own name feels strange in his mouth.

"Ah, yes. One moment, please." She stands and pulls a thick book, covered with rich brown leather, from a blue shelf. Its pages are filled with a thick black scrawl, arranged in what appears to be an unending list of names. She runs a finger down a page. "Let us see. Capulet, Juliet; Cleopatra; Cullen, Edward – " (here she makes a slight sound; of disgust or another emotion, the youth cannot tell) " – you are included here somewhere; don't worry. I must – well, here you are. Combeferre. You are not satisfied with your lot, I see?"

He shakes his head. No.

She stares thoughtfully into his face for a moment. Philosophical, knowledgeable, gentle, guiding. In an instant, she knows.

"I know where you may go," she tells him.

He only looks back at her.

"Do you want to change your destiny, Combeferre?"

"If I will be happy," he says. "I only want to be happy."

She nods, as if this was the answer she expected. The cream-colored shelf holds pale green books, and it is one of these that she pulls out and opens. "I've been having complaints from the Little Mermaid. It seems instead of receiving legs from the sea-witch she learned of her future, and she informs me that she does not wish to become a child of the air." As she speaks, she turns the thin pages. "Since I can't change the prince's knowledge of her, I'm sending you in." She looks up while taking a pen from a drawer. "She is very beautiful. You will both make each other happy, I think."

She knows how his heart yearns for beauty. How the rings inside a stone and the words of Socrates make him glad. She knows how the rise and fall of the grass billows on the dunes make him so happy. She thinks of the little mermaid, of her brash dazzle and the wise gold of her temper and her zest and rapture for living, and the Writer nods.

"You won't remember," she said. "The fighting and the blood of the Revolution, you will forget it. You won't remember me, either." She dips the pen into the ink and begins writing.

After a few paragraphs, Combeferre starts to fade.

When she finishes writing, she is alone in the room.

She smiles, and puts the book back on the shelf.


	2. Chapter 2

_A special piece written for Rosa Cotton._

_London, 2012._

The street is familiar.

Some of the storefronts have been rebuilt and modernized, or repainted and slung with electric lights; trees have been planted, benches added, and the sounds lingering in the air are no longer those of carriage wheels and horses.

One small shop remains untouched.

The same sign hangs blissfully, almost obliviously:

THE WRITER

_Inquire Within._

Pigeons suddenly scatter at the far end of the street. A tall girl emerges from their midst, muttering Italian curses as she slaps them away with a slender hand and begins stalking up the pavement, black eyes snapping.

She marches to the little shop, gives the sign a once-over, and throws open the door. The instant she steps inside, the door closes of its own accord. A blue cat darts behind a shelf.

The Writer looks up.

"How may I help you?"

"You are the Writer? Ah – they told me maybe you would not be in business any more. I knew better, _gli sciocchi stupidi. _I do not like to ask for the help, _signorina_. But I set that aside because for this once I need this help."

The Writer scans the girl's face. Hair of rich black, cheeks of damask rose, proud red mouth.

She recognizes this girl instantly.

"I am Giulietta," announces the personage, "And I am not happy."

"It _is_ terribly sad, your fate," says the Writer.

"It is not sad! It is the madness, this life! I have one tiny piece of love and _proprio __così_, it is gone – snatched away."

"Tell me about it," says the Writer, dragging a huge black book off a yellow shelf.

Giulietta grasps at this chance of sympathy. "First – my book is not even a true book. It is an _excerpt_. Fah!" She spits in disgust. "And I am in it only a short few pages – for what? The sad endings, they are artistic, they say! But do they count the plights of those who suffer from their wish to be artistic? No - è una tragedia!"

The Writer watches her with a thoughtful expression.

Giulietta glares at a knot in the wide wooden floorboards before seeming to crumple. "I did love him," she says softly. "How I loved him! And he was gone, all for the sake of his revenge! Revenge, it is useless, and so was his stupid obsession with the fencing. I hate him, I hated him and I loved him and that is how the loving goes, _signorina_, it creeps and skulks and pounces on you and then you are _carne morta_."

The Writer is silent. Her wide-set eyes are unblinking.

Ah, yes. Inigo Montoya. He was not the right one for her, the Writer reflects. Immature boy. And his life is ending soon.

She turns to the book and sees a name.

_St. John Rivers._

She nods her wise head. Such a cold man – such a pillar of ice – but with the right woman!

She turns to Giulietta, who is still stalking and fuming and kicking the iron staircase with her tiny boots.

The flame could melt his icy heart, she thinks.

And because she has been doing this since Time Immemorial, and because her golden eyes have seen more than the sun in the heavens, and because she is the Writer, of course she is right.

* * *

—_You will have to have read the first chapter of _Buttercup's Baby _to know the character of Giulietta. I do wish Mr. Goldman had written all of it._

_Elfine_

_Note added 9-3-12: I am planning to write more of these short stories, centered around the Writer in different years. If you think of characters you'd like me to use, PM me and tell me your ideas!_


	3. Chapter 3

_London, 1933._

The faint sound of a brass band echoes around the street, playing tinnily from the insides of a far-off victrola.

From the inside of her shop, the Writer lifts her head, her wide-set golden eyes holding thoughts in their steady depths.

She is listening.

Not to the victrola, nor to the wooden ticking of the cuckoo clock in the corner; not to the autumn wind beginning to blow, cold and cracking, on her door - her mind travels beyond; through the street, up the alley, and down a passage, to the quiet and steady tap of heels on the pavement.

They are coming nearer.

The Writer stands, closes the book she has been writing in, and replaces it on the shelf. She wipes the quill and puts it in its holder. She crosses to the door, presses her ear to the glass and closes her eyes, concentrating.

_Click-click. Click-click._

Closer.

And the Writer steps back from the door just as it bursts open; a man steps in.

He is tall and broad-shouldered; his clothing is dirty and torn, and there is mud an inch deep crusted over his shoes. His eyes, blue as forget-me-nots, flash cold and burn vicious, smoldering and freezing wicked by turns.

The traveler's beard curling down from his chin and over his chest is a deep, bright blue.

Even as she sees it, she is not frightened.

"Did you know I would be coming?" His voice is harsh.

"I knew it would be so someday," she replies.

"Where can I go?" he demands. "No one opens their doors to me, and in my own world I am shunned."

"Do you not understand why?" The Writer's tone is quiet.

"Where can I go?"

"There is no place for you!" Her eyes are their brightest gold and terrible, and as she advances, Bluebeard is awed. "You are the scourge, the cancer, the menace; wherever you go there will be pain. You cannot ask me to inflict a curse upon a world undeserving."

"Have you forgotten? You are bound to direct any man, woman, and creature where they will go. You can not refuse me."

She is silent, for she knows the truth of this.

"You are supposed to be dead," she says finally.

"I was; nearly," he answers.

Silence; the clock ticks.

"What do you want?" she says.

"I want to be comfortable, and with an occupation suiting to my taste."

She nearly cringes at the sardonic smile hovering over his lips. The Writer turns and walks to her desk. She reaches down into a small drawer and pulls out a small book, covered in tiny jewels, pages embossed with gold. She opens it to the first page and dips her pen in ink.

"It's empty," Bluebeard says, frowning.

"Yes," replies the Writer. "It is because you are the first." The quill touches the paper.

There is a jolt; even the Writer feels it. The huge man standing in the shop disappears.

Tick-tick, the clock sings.

The book goes back in the drawer. The pen is cleaned. The Writer folds her hands in her lap and gazes calmly into the eyes of the blue cat sitting on the rug.

The cat hisses.

"You will be comfortable. You will catch mice for your occupation; is that not good enough? I have fulfilled my obligation. You may stay or go as you please."

The cat blinks and stands, curling its tail in the air. It pads on tiny feet to the fireplace and lies down, staring at the Writer and flexing its claws.

"You can try that if you like, and see how long you will be allowed to live. You are bound the same as I."

Blue eyes and golden stare. The cat looks away.

"If you are staying," says the Writer, standing up and arranging books on the red shelf, "I must warn you that I will not forget where you have come from."

The Writer is always true to her word. She does not forget.

.

_For you, O Firefly :D_


	4. Chapter 4

_London, 1910._

Pain fills him.

His life, the soul of his music, the breath of his being – gone from him, gone in a flash of golden hair and the blue, blue, blue of her eyes.

The perfume of her voice remains in his ears. He holds his head in his hands, closing his eyes, feeling his heart thud; having known despair for so long before her light shone and died, the returning numb feeling is almost sweet to him.

After all this time, her kiss still burns.

.

A thick night mist creeps up the still street. A figure enveloped in a dark cloak moves through, glancing swiftly from one side to the other. The figure stops at a door, looking up at the sign.

THE WRITER

_Inquire Within._

He hesitates for a few seconds before doing something odd.

He knocks.

A silence; the door opens. He steps inside.

The room is darkened and warm. The walls are stacked, ceiling to floor, with shelves and books of different colors and sizes; some volumes are in piles on the floor.

The only light is coming from a corner, where someone sits, writing, at a desk. She looks up; the room seems to brighten.

"The Writer?" The man speaks in a low, harsh voice.

"You knocked," the Writer muses. "You knocked. That is very interesting."

"I was told you could help me," says the stranger. "The Persian –"

"I know who you are," the Writer says.

"They shunned me – hated me," the man says, venom running in his voice.

"I know," the Writer answers.

"They made me hate them."

She does not reply; only looks, looks with her wide-set eyes, sees into his soul, reads what is written there.

He whispers. "I wanted to kill them all for what they have done to me."

"And then," she says. "And then what?"

"And then – they would be sorry! Then they would wish they had never been so cruel!"

"Would that make you happy, Erik?" she says quietly. "Truly happy?"

Erik stares at her.

In a kind of frenzied, desperate gesture, he rips the mask from his face.

"Look at it!" he thunders. "They thought I was a monster! _She _thought it! Do you not see it?"

The Writer looks at him reflectively. "I will tell you what I see," she says. "I see a mouth that speaks, ears that hear, eyes that can gaze upon beauty and drink blessing from it. I see a mind that thinks and retains knowledge like any other. I see skin, muscle, teeth, hands, feet; what you think makes you a monster I think is only a small part of the human you are, and I think, Erik, that the curse you speak of can and will be broken by yourself."

The words that have always come so smoothly to his mind, to dance in his music under his pen, have suddenly gone from him.

The Writer crosses the room. She stands before him, takes his hand, and places a kiss gently on his forehead.

He staggers; gold, flashing and burning and tumbling with twisting light, roars through him. The light, which he so long has pushed away, is beneath his fingertips.

Christine's kiss is still sweet and silvery, but the Writer has caused the bitterness to slightly fade; and with a tiny, wild, daring hope, he has begun to live again.

The Writer is pulling a red volume from a pale green shelf.

He looks at the empty pages falling open. "You are…sending me somewhere?"

"I am," she replies.

"Where?"

"To a place where a great battle is raging.

"You are standing now at a fork in the path; dark and light stretch before you, waiting. I am sending you to a place where you will take up arms for Good; you will triumph and live fully; your disfigurement will not be frightening or even abnormal to most. They are not unused to such things there."

"What is this place called?" he asks, wonderingly.

The Writer sits at her desk and takes up her pen. She smooths the page and begins to write.

"It is called Middle-Earth," she says, and the Phantom disappears.

.

_Suggested by Angel of Love and Fluffy Stuff (distant relation to the Angel of Music?)_

_Be aware: I have not read the book (yet) so please correct any kind of error I might have made._


End file.
